


You're a wanker, number nine

by notnatural



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Blood, F/F, Nosebleed, Not Beta Read, Volleyball, isabelle is a senior clary is a junior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-30 15:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10165829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notnatural/pseuds/notnatural
Summary: Isabelle is the captain of her school's volley ball team. Clary is all for team spirit.





	

Isabelle tightens her ponytail, something wicked and ecstatic thrumming along the blood in her veins. She's like this pre-games, the entire goddamn team is like this pre-games. They know they're good. They know their non-verbal communication is next to flawless and that there's something mechanical and linked-in about the way they move on the court, but that doesn't change the pre-game nerves that spike up under their skin as the bleachers along the sides of the gym fill up, excited chattering ringing between the walls. Their team doesn't get enough attention as the boys' basketball team but it's close and they never lack audience.

Isabelle is can feel the bounce in Maia's leg against her own and she knocks her shoulder into her friend's, a short pressure of touch.

"You gonna bring those aces you're so famous for, Roberts?" She asks and Maia grimaces, runs both hands over her hair.

"Don't jinx me, Izzy." Isabelle waves a hand, watches the rest of the team bump a ball in between them, casually in close formation off to the side. She looks at the clock - their opponents are late.

"Superstitions are only useful if we lose." Maia laughs at her, nudges her shoulder with a closed fist. They both sit back and watch as even more people trail in. Izzy finds Jace in the leftside bleachers, wearing a very red, very bright 'Captain Lightwood' t-shirt. He catches her eyes and raises a hand in greeting, holding up his phone with the screen turned towards her. Izzy can't really see it, but she waves anyway, hoping Alec can see her through the shitty front-screen camera. Her eyes slide onward and her lips grow a bit tighter, maintaining the casual conviction that she's not looking for anyone special until Maia quirks up.

"Maureen! Maureen, your artsy friend is here!" Isabelle's head whips towards the entrance to the gym so fast it almost hurts her neck. She spots her at once, of course, because Isabelle is a brilliant liar to everyone but herself. She knows her name is Clary Fray, because both Maureen and Maia have had a thing with the nerdy guy she's always with. She knows she's just the _sweetest_ because Lindsay has German with her and she knows she can draw like a dream because Lydia is her Visual Arts teacher's PA. Lydia has jogged her way over to where they're sitting, stretching out her injured leg when she sits down next to them, pushing the tray with water bottles out on the floor. The rest of the team migrate to their side - Maureen is already laughing.

"Yeah. I've known Clary for like, ten years and I can tell you I'm not the one she's coming to see." Isabelle whips her ponytail over her shoulder in a way she knows makes her look way more unaffected than she is. She never feels like this, never feels actual presentational anxiety for anyone in particular - not anymore. The idea that a Junior would mess with her like that is frankly a little unsettling.

"It's a little cute." Aline says. Her and Helen are cross-legged in front of the bench and both of them keep throwing looks over their shoulders to catch glimpses of Clary where she's settled next to her friend at the top of the left-side bleachers. Isabelle wishes the _entire_ team wouldn't stare at once.

"It's _very_ cute." Lindsay supplies from where she's leaning against the wall. "And she's always so..." She trails off, apparently lost for words.

"Loud?" Aline supplies, finally looking up at Isabelle and the other girls laugh, they _titter_ and Isabelle is done.

"I think we can all appreciate her school spirit." She says, smile in her voice. Maia's not buying it, of course, because Maia is the most perceptive person in the world. She nods, lips pursing.

"Sure we can, captain. Bet that's not what she's thinking, though." Isabelle shakes her head, but obviously not rejecting enough so that Maia drops it.

"The redhead has been crushing on you since she was a freshman, if I remember correctly. Are you going to let the woman of her dreams graduate her way away from her?" Isabelle's eyes are on the entrance to the gym so she sees the other team as soon as they enter, uniforms green and white. She gets up when coach Garroway claps her hands. The rest of the team gets up - save for Lydia, who stays on the bench, reaching her hands up to grasp at the others, wishing them good luck. Isabelle is about to go meet the other team when Maia grabs her by the arms, turns her around to face the others.

"Let's make it a bet," she says. There's something unsettling and sneaky about her voice that has Isabelle intrigued. She arches an eyebrow in lieu of an answer. "If I can give you an ace, _captain_ , you'll go talk to the redhead after the game." Isabelle laughs.

"Give me two and I'll ask her out on the spot." It's an unlikely situation but Maia just smiles like she knows what's going to happen. Isabelle shakes her head and leads the way over to the other team. They shake hands, eyes going hard and calculating even with the "good game" wishes in the air between them. Coach Garroway wishes the other team a good game as well, shakes hands with the other coach and they go to each side of the net. She has them in a half circle around her.

"I'm sure you've heard of their reputation." She says and the girls nod. "They're not fun, so I don't want to see you going easy on them. I don't want to see shanks, I don't want to see fumbling." Isabelle's really trying to listen, she really is, but the audience has started chanting now and her eyes keep straying over coach's shoulder to see if she can spot who's singing along. "I don't want to see six-packs or foul play but I want you at your hardest. Five one. Lightwood - " Isabelle snaps her eyes back, " - you're setter." The girls nod, the seriousness in coach Garroway's voice tightening their expressions. They clap their hands together in the middle of the circle and stomp their feet. It's a territorial thing, a stupid thing, but it's loud and tends to fuck with their opponents' nerves. It usually works.

The girls on the other side of the net, though, look aloof and almost a little bored to be there. The determining rally leaves the opposing team with the first serve. Isabelle looks back over her shoulder when they're in position, finds Maia's eyes and winks. The server dribbles the ball a few times with both hands, eyes calculating through the net. Then she breathes in hard and does a jump serve.

She puts the ball in spiked line downwards to the right sideline. Lindsay sends it flying and Aline jumps to receive - she's a brilliant hitter, fast-thinking and precise. Isabelle divides her attention, keeps her eyes on the ball and her focus on the other team, how they move on the court. Time passes in a flurry of adrenaline spikes and sharp stabs of well-known pain to the skin on the heel of her hand.

The score is 17-16 to the other team when she figures out they have a recurring tendency to leave the middle open.

It looks like something their coach have driven out of them, meticulously and no doubt painfully, because after every point Isabelle's team wins, they shakes themselves up and avoid looking at their coach. But when the ball is theirs it seems like they relax and they lose the touch.

Isabelle scoffs at the lack of professionalism.

The next point is theirs, Isabelle's courtesy of a dig that takes their opponents by surprise. She receives the high-fives and back pats with a smile and, now and again an _aim towards their middle_ just for good measure. Helen has the next serve. She sends it flying in a neatly flat trajectory just over the edge of the net in an underhand manner, it's bumped back and forth and after a pass it comes back with twice the power, a rapidly sloping angle leading the ball to smash into her face.

The audience _roars_ from both sides. There's a whistle being blown and Isabelle silently panics for half a second, thinks about Lydia with her injured knee, about substitutions and concussions. Helen wavers for a second and Isabelle is next to her when the rest of the team is. She's already bleeding from both nostrils and she's keeping her mouth open like it hurts to close it. Her blinking is slow and confused, eyes slipping in and out of focus for a few seconds.

"That must've been a fucking a foul. You okay?" Maia says, sounding hopeful, but she grimaces even as she says it.

"Yeah." Helen waves with one hand, tries to clear her head by shaking it. "Jesus _christ._ " She keeps blinking in frustration and her hands around Aline's wrist are wound so tight they've turned white.

"No, you're not." Aline spits out, gritted teeth and all. Coach Garroway is by their side now, waving them away, but Aline keeps a hand around Helen's upper arm.

"You seeing clear, Blackthorn?" Garroway asks, hands cupping Helen's face way too soft to match her voice. Helen nods, breathing through her mouth as more blood drips down over her chin. Jesus _christ_ , there's a lot of it. Garroway frowns.

"So you're not gonna cost us the game if I let you play again?" Helen blanches - the coach might as well have slapped her to put that look in her eyes. She swallows deeply, grimaces immediately after and Isabelle knows what that's like, your own blood sliding down your throat, thick and too warm. She lets the coach lead her to the bench where Lydia is and a boy comes running onto the court with a cloth, wiping the blood off of the floor.

Aline is _seething_.

"Was that not a foul?" She asks, arms spread wide. Helen has three minutes to get better and Aline has three minutes to calm the hell down. Isabelle runs her hands through her hair, relishing in that sickly spiking adrenaline for a while.

The audience is still complaining. Even as they get into position Isabelle can single out certain voices. That's Jace, that's Kaelie and that's - she looks up at the referee, she can see he's annoyed. Isabelle follows his eyes up into the bleachers and huffs out a breath.

The red-haired Junior, Clary, is standing up like many others but Isabelle can still somehow hear her voice over the roar. It's not tinny like so many girls' voices usually are when they get loud and Isabelle wonders who taught her to yell.

"Get her off the court!" The girl is booming and the audience cheers in response. "That was a foul! That was such a goddamn foul!" It wasn't, not really, but Isabelle is sort of enjoying this. The girls of the opponent team are starting to look bothered, averting their eyes and pursing their lips. Maia sidles up next to her, bumps their shoulders. She doesn't say anything but she doesn't have to.

The last thing Clary says, before she's pulled down on the seat again, is "You fucking _suck,_ number nine!" Which Isabelle doesn't think is really allowed but she _really_ enjoys the look of absolute horror on number nine's face and how fast her head whips around to stare at the audience behind her. The crowd just makes noise in response and Isabelle thinks she can find it in herself to feel a little bit of sympathy.

A smidge, if she's lucky.

Helen is back on the court now, skin around her nose and upper lip slightly puffy. Aline rubs a thumb over her cheekbone with something shining in her eyes and Isabelle feels a twinge of fondness in her chest. Maybe dating someone isn't that bad of an idea.

The rally is kicked off by the opponents serving but there's something tight in Isabelle's chest now, something that she can feel in the others as well. It crackles in between them, this inherently petty pride that they've never seen a reason not to use. Maia doesn't let off any aces but she does bring the service anyway, passing the ball to Lindsay who smashes it just on the other side of the net - they win the first set 24-21.

Garroway doesn’t let them cheer for too long. With the audience chanting in the background - that’s Lindsay's name, that’s her name, that’s Helen’s name - she has them in a half circle again, next to the benches. Lydia gets up to listen.

“You were too unfocused in the beginning of the play.” Coach says, eyes flickering over all of them and still somehow set in stone. “That focus in the end there, I want that back. Decent passing shouldn’t happen just because your teammate is six-packed. Lightwood - “ Isabelle juts out her chin a little, “- I want you to _clean up_. Can you do that?” Coach Garroway isn’t even in the area of messing around so Isabelle nods, curtly. The coach throws a look over her shoulder to where the other team is talking to their coach.

“You gotta play on their weaknesses - “

“The middle.” Isabelle and Lydia say at the same time. Lydia smiles, a bit sheepishly, and nods for Isabelle to continue. “It’s like an inbred thing or something, they keep going back to it after things are going their way. They leave the middle open.” Coach is nodding at her, so she continues. “I’m not suggesting to let them have the lead, but - but it’s something we can play on.”

When they take positions, Isabelle pulls the roar of the crowd into her veins again, lets it buzz along with the adrenaline. It sets focus in her eyes, sharp and heady and she imagines that the pulse she can feel in her temples matches up with the chanting of the audience. The opponents serve and the game is on.

That focus is there from the get-go, mechanical and spine-thrilling. It messes the other team up - they’re visibly startled, shaken out from the easy start. The serves come quick, four-three-two seconds after the whistle blows and Isabelle feels the roar rather than hears it the first time Maia lands an ace. It’s an especially satisfying way to earn a point but as she meets the back row to cheer, Maia is just screaming “ _you gotta talk to Clary Fray, you gotta talk to Clary Fray_ ” weaving into the song of the crowd.

The adrenaline feels like a sugar rush from then on - it sits high in her throat, mercilessly winding her up until she’s nothing but hand and foot and calculated angles. Every time the opponent scores a point it clogs up more space, forces the breath in and out of her body and she feels over-heated, over-heated and _wild_. The court unfolds itself in front of her and nothing exists but their bodies, even the crowd’s screaming as she delivers a frankly impressive pancake dig becomes background noise, muffled by the blood pounding in her ears.

Which is why it comes as a surprise when Maia lands another ace and the final whistle blows.

She can hear the crowd now, because they’re _screaming_ . Maureen is dragging her to the back row and lifting Maia up on their shoulders seems like a natural reaction now. Coach Garroway rounds on them and she’s grinning, pride shining her eyes. The crowd is chanting ‘Roberts’ and Isabelle’s blood is _singing._

 

 

There’s something about the way sounds ricochet off the walls of locker rooms that fill Isabelle with the most intense feeling of home she’s ever felt. Like the feeling she gets when Alec calls, something enveloping and warm. She runs a soapy hand over her torso in the spray, laughing at the others.

“We should get our names changed, you know, the two of us.” Maureen says from the stall next to Isabelle’s.

“ _Yes_ .” Aline sounds exasperated. “Aline can’t be chanted. Maureen can’t be chanted. Penhallow and Brown don’t work either. What _happened_.”

Isabelle washes the soap off and winds a towel over her shoulders, rubbing off the water and she walks away from the showers. She’s still riding pleasantly high on the adrenaline and she relishes in it for a while until Maia shakes her out of it.

“So where are you going to go?” Isabelle looks at Maia from across the locker room, both pulling on sweatpants.

“Go?” She asks and Maia grins.

“I gave you two aces. You said you were gonna ask her out on the spot if I gave you two aces.”

Isabelle stalls. She did say that, didn’t she.

“She’s probably gone by now, I can just-”

“ _Actually_ , I heard a lil’ birdie say something about Simon Lewis always hanging out near the music rooms after games.” Lindsay looks overly happy to help and Isabelle wonders if the lil’ birdie is Jace and wonders what else he knows about Simon Lewis. She arches both eyebrows and pulls on a hoodie.

“What about Team Pizza?” Aline is waving a hand, Helen close to her back.

“Just go, captain. Mutual pining isn’t hot anymore.”

Isabelle decides that the entire team is conspiring against her. She shrugs, kisses the air and leaves the locker room, Maia’s voice loud and suggestive on her heels.

The school really does look mostly deserted, save from the few avid supporters of school spirit who greet her in the main hallway. It’s a surprise when she rounds the hallway to the music rooms and hears voices from inside one of them, open door letting out the light.

“What I don’t get though, what I don’t get is that Lightwood is always the setter. Isn’t the captain supposed to be the best player?”

“Isabelle is _easily_ the best-”

“I know, Clary, I just mean she could’ve been a hitter, right? She could make some killer attacks.”

Isabelle walks a little closer, feeling too erratic and jumpy to feel any shame in eavesdropping.

“I guess, but setting is all about precision. It’s all about focus and overview and stuff, passing properly, you know. The captain has that under control as well.”

Isabelle shakes herself out of it, knocks on the wall before she appears in the open door.

Clary is on the floor in the music room, leaning against the wall. Across from her is the guy, Simon, but Isabelle isn’t focusing on him, slightly overcome with the fact that she’s never been this close to Clary before.

Simon recovers quicker than any of the girls.

“I - uh.” He looks at Clary, smile something soft and secret. “I gotta go. See you tomorrow, Clare.”

He gets up with guitar in one hand and his bag in the other, ducks out of the door with a reverent look to Isabelle. “Great game,” he says, walking backwards away from her, “really great play, that was some - yeah. Wow. Great game.” Then he disappears around the corner. When Isabelle looks back, Clary’s still looking at her. There’s a part of Isabelle, the part that’s still high on adrenaline that mostly wants to turn off the light and see if she can make Clary’s cheeks go even more flushed than they are now but she swallows it down, takes a step inside the music room. Clary just seems to get more comfortable on the floor, crossed legs clad in ripped, paint-spattered jeans.

“My name is-”

“Isabelle. I know.” Clary says. “I’ve - uh. I’ve been to all your games. I’m-”

“Clary?” Isabelle says, smile breaking through her voice. “I know. I’ve seen you at our games.” Clary’s cheeks do go a bit more red at that, but she mostly looks pleased and definitely happy. She gets up, dust herself off, seemingly to have something to do with her hands.

Isabelle breathes in and holds it for a second. Maia isn’t here - Maia won’t necessarily know what happened, so she doesn’t have to do it right now, she can wait, she can be classy -

“Do you wanna go see a movie some time?” Clary asks.

Isabelle is absolutely and completely floored. She can feel her eyes widen and the corners of her lips twitch - apparently she’s quiet long enough for Clary to grow uncertain.

“Just like - it could just be us hanging out, like it wouldn’t have to be - “

“A date?” Isabelle says. She feels jittery - she never feels jittery, she never feels that loss of control. She likes it, she decides. Clary smiles and it’s soft and pretty and a million different things that warm Isabelle to her core.

“Yeah,” Clary says, “if you want.”

Isabelle does, of course. She reminds herself to thank Maia later.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if volleyball is your life or something, I don't even know half of these terms in danish. I did my research tho I swear.  
> but anyway, title is from Lesbian Movie 'Imagine me and you' which is super cliché and terrible but you should watch anyway


End file.
